


not gonna let 'em catch the midnight rider

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Because Fuck Canon That's Why, First Time, Hotel Sex, M/M, Music, Road Trips, common ground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The road goes on forever. At least, it goes on for about two thousand miles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not gonna let 'em catch the midnight rider

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [not gonna let 'em catch the midnight rider](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563476) by [Silmary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silmary/pseuds/Silmary)



> This is set immediately before "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Thor's Hammer," but disregards, like, a bunch of everything, in the name of Phil and Clint on a cross-country road trip.

According to the GPS, it's thirty-five hours from New York to Puente Antiguo, and Clint is kind of embarrassed that it takes them any longer than that to get there. They're driving in shifts, stopping when the car runs out of gas, and it's kind of boring for the first few hours. The radio is okay for a while, but then the sun comes up and they hit the part of the morning where the wacky local DJs start doing their thing. The first prank call, and Phil and Clint reach for the radio at the same time.

"MP3 player's in my jacket," Phil tells him; Clint reaches into the back seat, pulling it out of a pocket and turning back around. He plugs it in and turns it on, scrolling through playlists, all of which he is intensely curious about, because the idea of Phil even listening to music is odd. "driving" is too obvious by far, probably better reserved for another five hundred miles or so down the road. He picks "early morning" instead, tapping it to see what's in it; the first few songs are by something called the Average White Band, and Clint almost bursts out laughing. _Of course_ that's what Phil would listen to, the most bland-sounding thing on the planet.

He plays it, just to see, but it turns out the joke is on him, because what comes out of the speakers is funk, something he's heard before but never knew the name of. He turns to Phil, wondering whether Phil is just screwing with him, but Phil has his eyes on the road; he's drumming on the steering wheel, singing softly along with the sax line.

"I also have Rock 3 on there, if it makes you feel any better, Barton," Phil says, without looking, but he's smiling.

"I don't see how rock is supposed to be any less weird," Clint tells him, though he has a very clear sense in his head now that, at some point in his life, Phil has gotten drunk and sung along with Journey.

"Rach 3," Phil corrects. "Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto Number 3."

"Horowitz or Cliburn?" Clint asks, shutting his eyes and sinking a little into his seat. Phil's the one fumbling for words this time, so Clint adds, "I dated this really, really boring pianist one time."

"I'd tell you there's nothing boring about Rachmaninoff, but you wouldn't believe me."

Clint snorts, resting his head against the window. He drifts off after that; when he wakes up, they're at a truck stop. Phil gasses up the car, and then they have whatever meal it is that comes at this time of the day- it's truck stop food, the menu doesn't really change. Phil meticulously eats his pancakes, and Clint has the kind of hamburger that you can only really get at a place like a truck stop or a Waffle House, intensely satisfying at the same time that it's a really bad idea.

Clint is known to enjoy things like that.

Phil tosses him the keys, and they're off again. Clint is sort of glad when Phil falls asleep, because, as much as he's enjoying Phil's company, Phil's got a habit of working the driver's ed brake as Clint drives. Clint doesn't really know where he gets off doing that; Phil drives faster than him, even though, Clint is ready to admit, Phil doesn't tailgate people like Clint does.

They get through a good chunk of the Midwest without talking much. It's a really boring drive, one that doesn't lend itself to a lot of sparkling conversation. Clint is driving again somewhere in Missouri, and he turns to Phil, finally asking him the thing that's been bugging him all day.

"Why are we driving all the way to New Mexico?" Clint asks. It's not that he's not used to long-distance travel; it's just that driving all the way cross-country- especially both of them- just seems odd.

"Do you want the honest answer?" Phil says, in the grim voice that he reserves for his most grave pronouncements.

"Sure," Clint replies, even though he's not sure now that he wants the answer.

"I have no idea," he says, and Clint laughs; Phil grins.

"This might be a team-building exercise," Clint offers.

"I thought we already were a team," Phil says mildly, and this time, Clint can't help but stare at him. Phil's been his supervisor for three years, and he's never said anything like that before. He's referred to Clint as "my sniper" or "my operative" or, on one memorable occasion, "my complete fuck-up who's getting his ass kicked as soon as he comes down from that nest, _Barton_ ," but nothing quite like that, nothing that says they're really in this together. "Eyes on the road," Phil reminds him.

"Then I've got nothing," Clint says. "Maybe he just took a wild hair."

"Director Fury always has his reasons," Phil says, in the same voice that he's heard people say, "God has a plan for you."

The MP3 player's on some old country stuff, Hank Williams or something, so it's sort of shocking when this classical piano starts playing. Clint is about to comment, but Phil holds up a finger; it's been normal stuff up until then, kind of sedate, but then the pianist starts going crazy, doing something loud and complicated. "I take it this is Rachmaninoff."

"Cliburn, if you were wondering."

"Actually, I kind of was," Clint admits. He'd heard his ex go on and on about the relative merits of various pianists, and he'd never actually listened to any of them; Jacob never shut his mouth long enough to so much as put in a CD. The only reason they even made it to two months is that some of what Jacob did with his mouth was really, _really_ entertaining, but Clint just didn't tell him when he got assigned to a mission in Sofia and hoped Jacob took the hint.

He did; his revenge was to leave Clint a very strongly-worded letter without a single obscenity in it, and Clint knew he had done _exactly_ the right thing.

Phil lets it play for a couple of minutes, but then he shuts it off; Clint looks over in confusion. "I wasn't bored," he says.

"Terrible driving music," Phil says dismissively. "Trust me." He puts on the Allman Brothers instead, and Clint really doesn't know when the hell Phil even had time to listen to this much music; Clint doesn't ever picture him doing much outside of work. 

The temptation to sing along is enormous, because Clint has long since realized that this is one of those songs that you can't hear in a car without doing it. It's some kind of innate singing instinct, one that has nothing to do with the quality of the song or even the content of the lyrics.

"I got one more silver dollar," Phil sings quietly, and all bets are off.

They're in Oklahoma before they both give out; they left in the middle of the night, and it's almost the middle of the night again. Clint drives up on the rumble strip once, and then twice, and Phil pulls the GPS out of the holder. "Recalculating," the bossy English woman inside it says; Clint doesn't like her, because she sounds so angry with him when he gets things wrong and makes her do more work.

Clint's a little shocked when the GPS leads them to the center of Tulsa; he'd already figured out they were going to a hotel, but he figured it was more like Phil to pick out some worn-out place on the side of the highway. "Ritzy," Clint says, looking around the lobby.

"If they didn't want me to use my expense account, they shouldn't have given it to me," Phil says, with that half-smile he makes when he's pulling one over on someone.

They only have rooms with king-sized beds left, and Phil doesn't make a single noise of protest. The bags are waiting when they get there, and when Clint sees the bed, he remembers exactly how tired he is. Phil goes to the shower, but Clint just strips down to his boxers and climbs under the covers. It feels so good just to stretch his legs, and his intention is to pass out.

But he's still awake when Phil comes back from the shower, dressed in just sleep pants, and turns out the lights. Clint's still awake ten minutes later; he's still awake fifteen minutes later, and that's when he realizes he's hit that awful point where he's just too tired to sleep. Phil is still awake beside him, one hand above his head and the other finger-drumming on the bedspread.

And Clint almost doesn't. He doesn't know if he'll be able to explain, doesn't know if he'll be able to convince Phil that it doesn't have anything to do with sleep deprivation or stress or just boredom; but the real reason is that Phil is just so far away, the bed so wide between them. He and Phil have been in crisis situations a dozen times, but Clint is letting himself be intimidated by a foot or two of pillows and sheets.

"If you're coming over here, Barton," Phil says softly, and he's not looking at Clint, just talking to the ceiling, "you'd better do it now. I do intend on getting at least _some_ sleep." He pauses, and Clint can hear him swallow. "If you come, bring the condoms with you. Outside pocket of my shaving kit."

Phil will never, ever stop amazing him, and that's just fine with Clint.

He rolls out of bed, going into the bathroom; his hands are shaking when he opens Phil's bag, rummaging around and pulling out a bottle of lube and a strip of, um, wow, Trojan Magnums, didn't expect that one. The fact that Phil even has this stuff with him speaks volumes, but Clint's going to think about that later, much later, _after_ they're good and done.

In the dim half-light from the window, he can see Phil; he's still underneath the covers, but Clint can see his hand moving on his cock, and Clint wants him pretty badly right now. He doesn't waste time, walking over and depositing the condoms and lube on the nightstand. Phil's pants and boxer briefs are already on the floor, and Clint adds his boxers to the pile.

And then he's in bed with Phil and Phil is turning towards him; he was sharing a bed with Phil, but now they're _in bed together_ , which is a really different proposition. He puts his hand on the back of Phil's neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It's hot and wet; Clint would say that it's not like he imagined kissing Phil would be like at all, but that's a lie now. Clint has learned enough to know that there's no expecting with Phil. Phil's got a plan, definitely, but he's also got no interest in letting anyone else know what it is.

Phil grabs his ass and draws him forward, close enough that they're grinding against each other, and Clint moans, pushing into it. It's been a while; even if it hadn't, he'd still be this needy, because that's the _point_ , giving in to how much you need someone else, admitting it.

Clint reaches for Phil's dick, running his hand up and down the length of it; it certainly is big, but Clint's not complaining at all. Phil just kisses him harder as Clint strokes him, his own cock leaking onto Phil's thigh.

Clint rubs his thumb in just the right spot, right under the head of Phil's cock, and Phil breaks away, gasping. He leans over, close enough to Clint's ear that Clint can feel his breath. "I want to fuck you," he says, and Clint almost loses it right there.

"Yeah," Clint says, snatching the lube off the nightstand and pressing it into Phil's hands. "Please."

"That's not something I hear from you very often," Phil says, low and dry.

"You're not usually offering me things I want," Clint reminds him, turning over and getting on his hands and knees.

"Turn around," Phil tells him, pushing at his hip, and Clint sort of doesn't know where he's going until Phil adds, "Face away from the headboard."

Clint's not sure where he's headed with this, but Phil's the one with the plan, so he does it. He's rewarded for it pretty quickly; Phil gets in behind him, and Clint hears the snick of the bottle opening. Phil presses two slippery fingers inside of him, and Clint groans. He'd really like to skip this part; it isn't that Phil's fingers don't feel great, just that there are other parts of Phil that he's way more interested in having in there. But, one, he's going to need it, and two, he gets the distinct impression that if he does anything at all to hurry this process up, Phil is just going to slow it down, out of sheer contrariness. 

But soon enough Clint is wet and slick and stretched, and Phil pulls away from him. Clint can hear the condom wrapper being torn open, and he waits impatiently, waits for Phil to grab him by his hips and pull him onto his dick.

"Turn over," Phil says, and when Clint does, Phil is sitting up against the headboard, the pillows pushed haphazardly out of the way. He doesn't say anything, just crooks his finger at Clint.

This isn't at all what Clint expected, but he climbs onto Phil anyway, kissing him. "You're going to make me do all the work?"

Phil smirks. "Now you know how I feel."

Clint snorts. He kneels up, getting in just the right place so he can take Phil's cock. It's not easy, a false start or two, but then he's got it. It hurts, even despite the prep, but that doesn't stop him; pain's never stopped him from getting anything he wanted, and that's not going to change now.

They've only just gotten started, but Clint is already aware that sex with Phil isn't like sex with anyone else. Road trip sex with his handler in a fancy hotel room in Tulsa, whatever, that's just a set of circumstances that wouldn't be hard to replicate. It's the look on Phil's face that's different; they're so close that Phil is looking him straight in the eye, and his expression is hard to describe. His eyes are clear and piercing, just like they always are, but there's something else behind them, want that borders on desperation.

Clint starts to ride him, slow but hard, and he presses his mouth to Phil's, because he doesn't know what to do with that look, doesn't know what it means. Phil curls his hands around Clint's hips, urging him on. It's so good, the stretch and the fullness of it, and Clint can't deal with slow for very long. He wants to drag this out, make it good for as long as possible, but he's just gonna have to step up his game, make it _great_ until he gives out.

He's moving faster, pushing down harder, and Phil thrusts up to meet him. He doesn't have much leverage, but that doesn't matter much, because Clint is losing control of himself. His thighs are complaining and his back hurts, but he's riding Phil for all he's worth. He's biting his lip hard enough that he thinks it might bleed, and it's all worth it, every single bit of it. He'd take a lot worse if it meant he could have this, Phil this close, Phil _inside_ him.

His cock is sliding against Phil's belly, slick with precome, and that's all it takes to make him go off, clutching at Phil, clinging to him as he pushes up a few more times and comes, groaning. His eyes are locked onto Clint's, and Clint doesn't think anyone's ever _seen_ him like that before, or let him see so much of _them_.

Then it's done, and Phil puts his head on Clint's shoulder. Clint doesn't have much interest in moving, and Phil doesn't seem to care; they stay like that for a good long while, the only sound their breathing. Phil cards his fingers through Clint's hair, pulling him forward and kissing him deeply.

Clint can't stay like that forever; he winces when he rolls off of Phil, more at the soreness in his thighs than anything else. Phil deals with the condom and brings Clint a washrag, and then they're lying in bed together again, and Clint kind of doesn't know what to think about what just happened. He has this whole weird moment of are-we-cuddling-or-aren't-we, but Phil doesn't seem to notice or care; he just grabs Clint by his wrist and pulls him close, settling his face in Clint's hair.

Clint sleeps like the dead until the alarm goes off; they get up and take showers and drink terrible hotel room coffee and check out, and neither of them says anything. Phil takes the keys from the valet; "My turn to drive," is the first thing he says to Clint all morning.

That's when Clint figures it out, that this was a one-time thing; there won't be any explaining at all, because Clint's pretty sure this is the part where they start never speaking about it again.

Phil navigates them out of town and back on the highway; he sets the cruise control and sits back, and he puts his hand on Clint's thigh. It's not teasing, not really sexual at all, just proprietary. He does it with an air of finality- this is what we do now, and there's no need to question it.

Clint just shakes his head, firing up the MP3 player. "driving" ends up being big band music, and Phil smiles.

Then there's this whole thing at a gas station with a bag of flour, but that's a story for another time.

**Author's Note:**

> For your edification, the song by Average White Band that you've heard before is [Pick Up the Pieces](http://youtu.be/FnH_zwVmiuE), [this](http://youtu.be/apNTq-Tgf4w) is part of Van Cliburn's performance of Rach 3, and, of course, [here](http://youtu.be/K7A2acBVENA) is a song that must be sung along to.


End file.
